


Vodka

by akane42me



Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-13
Updated: 2011-07-13
Packaged: 2017-10-21 08:25:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/223093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akane42me/pseuds/akane42me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya struggles with grief after Mr. Waverly's death, and pushes away the one person who can help him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vodka

**Author's Note:**

> Written in January 2008 for a mfuwss beta challenge.

VODKA

 

October 1980 - New York

When the door to Mr. Waverly’s office slid open, he wished he’d brought coffee, and not only the envelope. At this late hour, even Lisa Rogers’ desk was empty. Coffee would have been a plausible pretext for his unannounced visit. He spoke before he was through the door. “I should have called first.”

The Continental Chief of North America managed to appear annoyed and relieved at the same time, and beckoned with the telephone receiver. “No, come in - I just have to call what’s-his-name, the South Africa -” He picked up a paper, scanned it, then began to pick through a jumble of papers on his desk.

“Smith.”

“Smith? Isn’t it Triangle, or -”

“Tranagle. He’s dead. It’s Smith.”

Napoleon frowned, pushed back from the console and scrubbed at his eyes with his fists. “I knew that. You know what? I need a break. Let me call for some coffee.”

“I’ll call for coffee. You call Smith,” Illya said. He retreated to Lisa’s desk and called down to food service, ordering a carafe of coffee and, on a hunch, a tray of sandwiches. His stomach fluttered. Not from hunger, but nervousness. He’d put this off all day. A few minutes more, what would it matter? They’d just argue again. But this time, it would be different. He glanced at the envelope.

The buzz from the desk speaker made him jump.

“Illya? You still out there?”

His mouth went dry. He stood, straightened his shoulders, and went in. Napoleon stood at the windows, tired, preoccupied. Illya said nothing, and joined him, remembering the other man who had held vigil there. They stood, shoulder to shoulder, and watched the night.

***

January 1981 - Oslo

The silver metal was cold. He’d taken only a few sips, but already the world had taken on a crisp, clear edge. The snow sparkled in the sun. The black tree branches cut sharp lines in the blue sky. Vodka. Crisp and clear. Maybe he should stop thinking, and just sit and enjoy the view. Another swallow or two and the world would make sense for a while. But too much vodka, he thought, and before you know it, you think you know it all, that you can speak with clever veracity, applying just the right touch of self-deprecation. Then you hear yourself unleash an abomination of hard words, sardonic stones, you’ve picked the ones with the sharpest edges, and your aim, in spite of the drink, or perhaps because of it, is deadly.

His mouth tightened. The concierge said there were no calls. Melancholy settled against his chest, right behind his passport and airline ticket. Instead of celebrating Napoleon’s birthday tonight, he would return to Paris.

He thought of the widening rift between them. In October, Napoleon refused Illya‘s resignation and called it a leave of absence. They’d bickered during Illya’s November check-in. December was little better. They‘d skipped Christmas. And now, this.

They’d met for drinks last night after Napoleon’s meetings were finished. Illya had downed a couple of fast ones, hurrying toward the conciliatory mood the liquor would inspire. But all too soon, the arguing began. It escalated every time they held one of these damned monthly get-togethers.

Near closing time, while they waited for a round that Napoleon said he didn’t want, but Illya had ordered anyway: “Napoleon, I want my papers.”

“No, you don‘t.”

“Don’t presume to know what I want.”

“That’s almost funny.” Napoleon’s eyes flashed at Illya’s challenge. “Have you seen yourself lately? You don’t even know yourself anymore.” Napoleon pointed a finger at Illya. “You’re grieving, you’ve been depressed for months. But you sure as hell don’t want out. That much I know.”

He’d shot back an angry rebuttal, and then he was outside, hailing a cab. He stiffened, uncomfortable, as the memory edged its way toward clarity. He couldn’t remember the exact words of his response, but he could still taste its bitterness on his tongue. And the expression, first of shock, then unfeigned hurt, on Napoleon’s face - well.

He put his thumb and two fingers on the flask’s little cap.

“Excuse me, may I join you?”

Illya froze in the middle of his movement, then covered the flask with his hand.

The twenty-ish man wore a black topcoat, vintage, probably from a seconds shop, black woolen pants, and sturdy brown hiking boots. No gloves. No hat. His thick black hair ruffled in the frosty air. Youth. Impervious to the elements. A university student, judging by the book bag threaded onto one shoulder by its straps and the oversized hardcover book clamped in the crook of an arm. In one hand, he held a thermos bottle, and in the other, a sandwich wrapped in thin paper. The lizard part of his brain opened an eye, but the gatekeeper soothed it back to sleep, whispering, “It is only a student, looking for a place to eat his lunch.”

In spite of the student’s polite request, Illya hesitated. It would always be there, just around the corner. He looked at the young man, at the student apartment buildings, at the similar young men and women congregating in the park, carrying sandwiches and books. Lunch, taken out of doors, a breath of fresh air stolen between study sessions. Perhaps a smoke. An ordinary day, really.

At Illya‘s hesitation the young man took a step back and said, “I’m sorry, I did not mean to intrude.” He stood with a hopeful look and shuffled the thermos to the other hand to gain a better grip on the textbook, and nearly dropped his lunch.

To hell with it. “Not at all. Of course, please join me.” Illya moved to the right from the center of the bench to make room. He made an adjustment to his overcoat and slid the flask into his inner breast pocket. Something flickered in the young man’s eyes. Illya withdrew his hand from his coat and, brushing a few snowflakes from his lap, smiled at the student.

“Ah! Thank you, so much.” The student smiled back and perched on the edge of the bench. He set his things between the two of them and began to writhe his way free of the book bag. The thermos wobbled on the uneven surface and the student yelped in alarm. He made a grab for it, but Illya beat him to it and held it in place on the bench.

“Thank you, again,” said the student as he stood and pulled his arm free of the book bag‘s straps. It slid to the ground from the force of its own weight, and the young man sat down again.

As he let go of the thermos, Illya rubbed his hands together. “These gloves are too thin,” he said, and shoved his hands into his coat pockets.

The student unwrapped the paper bundle and came up with a sorry looking fare: a thin square of pale cheese stuck to a slice of buttered brown bread. He took a bite, eliminating nearly a quarter of the sandwich, and pointed his chin at Illya’s chest while he chewed.

“Oh, I think you will be warm enough,” he said, and grinned at his little joke.

Illya blinked and watched the younger man take another bite. So. He’d seen the flask. He looked away at the snow and the trees and, with a soft chuckle, shrugged and said, “Just a little toast, to honor a friend’s birthday.”

The student chewed and swallowed, bit again, and chewed thoughtfully. When the last bite of his meal was gone, he said, “It doesn’t seem like you’re celebrating, actually.”

“We are - distanced.”

“That’s too bad.” The student nodded in sympathy. Then his somber eyes brightened. “Perhaps you should give him a call.”

Illya nodded in turn. “That’s not a bad idea. As a matter of fact, I was thinking about doing so, later on.”

“Excellent. You look happier already. And now, let’s have some dessert. I’ve got two apples in here somewhere, which I would be happy to share with you.” Illya began to decline the offer, but the student had already lifted the book bag onto his lap and plunged his arm inside, foraged for a moment and then stilled. His eyes locked onto Illya’s. The lizard’s eyes flew open and the gatekeeper said,  _“Shooter,”_ as something in the student’s book bag coughed and Illya’s left side burned, on fire. In the same instant his own weapon, held at the ready in his right hand pocket, answered with a muffled thwack, because really, there was no such thing as an ordinary day, and he’d instinctively put his hand on his gun based on nothing more than the flicker in the stranger’s eye.

The student flopped over, limp, falling half off the side of the bench. Illya pulled the young man by the arms to haul him upright on the bench and glanced around as he peeled off his right glove and pressed his fingers against the man’s neck. The pulse at the carotid was thin, but steady. The dart was lodged just below the jaw, and as he pulled it out he thought about how quickly the new generation of chemicals worked. He took a deep breath and felt a sharp pain where the bullet had entered his side. He swept together the remnants of the man’s lunch, stuffed it inside the book bag, and wedged the book bag next to the man. The textbook lay face down in the snow. Illya picked it up and shook it to loosen the snow from its pages. A small black and white photo fluttered to the ground. He scooped it up and saw his own face staring back at him. The lizard hissed, and the gatekeeper said, “Thirty seconds. Walk away.”

He shoved the photo into his pocket. After he propped the book on the student’s lap, he took a last look around. Anyone out for a stroll would see nothing more than a student napping on a park bench, lulled to sleep by the warmth of the winter sun and a boring text. Satisfied, he moved off toward the little stand of trees near the bank of the river, to put some distance between himself and his would-be assassin.

The river ice was a mirror, flashing sunlight into his eyes, blinding him. He closed his eyes and lost his equilibrium, so he opened them and forced himself to walk until he reached the trees. He leaned against one, out of breath. A wave of heat and nausea washed over him as he fumbled in his left pocket for his communicator device. Several interminable seconds passed before he retrieved it and with clumsy fingers, opened it and pressed a red button on its keypad. He wished for his old pen communicator. When he finished speaking, he smiled, pleased with his accomplishment. He realized he was sitting down in the snow, propped against the tree. Blackness clouded his peripheral vision, then closed in and took him.

He became aware of a rustling sound and the aroma of coffee. He opened his eyes to the sight of Napoleon sitting beside him, working out of his briefcase, reading reports. The coffee cup was an arm’s length away on the bedside table. An IV bag hung from a metal rack, its fluid draining into a tube taped to the top of Illya’s right hand.

“Did I miss my flight?” Illya asked.

Napoleon’s head bobbed up at the sound of Illya’s voice. He laughed at his friend‘s pragmatic greeting. “You get shot and you’re worried about your flight?” He shook his head. “Let me guess - the ticket’s non-refundable. Tightwad.”

“Economical.”

“Cheapskate - and you’re going to say ’frugal,’ so save your breath,” Napoleon said. “You missed your flight by about - " he checked his watch - "twelve hours. The bullet went in and out, clean, but I had them make sure you got a good night’s sleep anyway. Now that you’re awake, you’re good to leave.''

He opened a file and showed Illya two photos. “After we had a little talk with your hit man, we picked up his partner at the airport. Amateurs. Rumor has it you’ve been sneaking in and out of the Ukraine during your leave of absence.” Napoleon grimaced and tossed the photos back into the briefcase. “You pissed somebody off over there. Illya, you really have to stop traveling in such unsavory circles. You’re damned lucky you weren’t -” He stopped and made busy work of stacking the folders together.

“I’m glad to see you, too, Napoleon. Actually, I was worried that if the police found me in the park before you did, I’d freeze to death before they could decide who should take responsibility for me.”

“Lucky there were so many of us in town. We had you in ten minutes. And apparently, you had some antifreeze in you.” Napoleon rummaged in his briefcase and produced the silver flask. “Nice inscription, by the way.” He turned the flask toward Illya, so the etched ‘N.S.’ was in full view.

“Oh. Sorry. Happy Birthday.”

“It’s bad manners to start the party before the party starts,” Napoleon said, as he shook the flask to illustrate its less-than-full status.

Illya smiled, letting the familiarity of the moment soak in.

“It’s good to see you smiling, for a change,” said Napoleon.

Illya smiled some more.

“You’re happy.” Napoleon frowned. “You got shot and you’re happy.”

Illya inspected the IV shunt in his hand and said, “It felt good to get the adrenaline flowing again.” He paused. “You were right. I didn’t want to admit how much I missed it, even to myself.” He watched Napoleon, curious to see the effect of his confession.

Napoleon said nothing, and swirled the flask absently. He unscrewed its cap, took a tentative whiff, and gave his friend a questioning look.

“You have before you a highly volatile Russian spirit, which, if not properly filtered, can be quite harmful.” Illya looked away and added under his breath, “And I don’t mean the vodka.“

“Apology accepted,” replied Napoleon. He sat still, then said quietly, “Say the word, and you’re back.”

Illya said, “I’ll think about it.”

“One more thing -” Napoleon hesitated for a fraction, then caught Illya’s eye with a frank gaze. “You’ve been drinking more than usual lately. Is that something you need to think about, too?”

Illya snorted, and pulled the IV from his hand. “Napoleon. Please.”

Napoleon waited.

“I’ll think about it,” said Illya, as he pushed himself from the bed and swung his feet to the floor.

Napoleon closed his briefcase, rose, and retrieved a bundle from the wardrobe. “I brought you a change of clothes,“ he said, and tossed it into the tiny bathroom. He returned to the wardrobe, folded Illya’s black overcoat over an arm and said, “There’s a place just a couple of blocks away. It has the most unbelievable piroshki, with this golden brown chicken soup …”

The End


End file.
